by William Brazill
I watched the flames hungrily devour the structure, walls collapsing in helplessness, beams disintegrating, furnishings screaming their protest. Charred ruins, embers, then ashes. The coldness of reduction, life incinerated to nothingness. I do not know why I set fire to my house. To forget the past, maybe. But I did not - and I have not.
William Brazill lives near Washington, DC on the banks of the Potomac River where he writes fiction and watches the water flow by.